Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘A little shake,’ he said and Falco shook his head from side to side while the master studied the way the helmet moved. ‘Hmm,’ he droned, clearly unhappy with the fit.

  ‘It feels fine,’ said Falco. ‘Better than anything I’ve worn before.’

  But the master was not satisfied.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The brow is fine but we’ll raise the ridge a little to bring in the sides and increase the occipital curve before the final temper.’ He spoke a few quick words to the fitters and a series of notes were duly entered into the book.

  ‘Try the shield,’ said Antonio, stepping back as one of the fitters held it up so that Falco could slip his arm into the straps.

  The shield was perfectly weighted and Falco finally felt a deep sense of satisfaction surging through him. He had never even seen this armour before, and he certainly did not feel worthy of it, but somehow it felt right. It felt as if it had been made especially for him, which of course, it had.

  The fitters turned him to face a full-length mirror and Falco barely recognised the figure staring back at him. Finally they drew back the curtain to allow Aurelian and Meredith back into the room.

  Aurelian’s gaze was filled with a strange satisfaction while Meredith could only stare.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Aurelian with an approving smile. ‘Out of thin air.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Falco, flexing his arms and shoulders to test his freedom of movement. ‘Feels even lighter than the full bonnet.’

  Aurelian gave a snort of laughter while Master Missaglias raised an affronted eyebrow. He had never had someone compare his work to the crude training armour used at the academy before. With a final nod he left Falco in the capable hands of his fitters who would list the modifications that needed to be made to the armour. Falco kept insisting it was fine but the fitters knew that ill-fitting armour could easily cause injury to the wearer, especially one as agile and athletic as a battle mage was required to be. Using a piece of black wax like a tailor’s chalk one of them applied a whole series of adjustment marks to Falco’s armour, while the other entered the corresponding notes in the book.

  While the fitters continued their work Antonio approached Meredith who was still staring at Falco.

  ‘He looks like the power I sense inside,’ breathed Meredith.

  ‘I think that is the finest compliment I have ever been paid,’ said Antonio and Meredith blushed. He had not meant to speak his thoughts out loud. ‘So I take it these are your designs.’

  Meredith nodded and put a hand to the scroll case hanging at his side.

  Antonio called to a young apprentice who was laying out pieces of armour in a nearby fitting room.

  ‘Go and find Master Dorian in the etching rooms. Ask him to join us if he can spare a few minutes.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Antonio led Meredith and Aurelian over to a series of drawing tables covered in rolls of parchment and sketches of armour at various stages of completion. He cleared a table and invited Meredith to show him the designs he had been working on. Feeling distinctly nervous Meredith opened the scroll case and began to spread out the pages he had prepared. They kept curling up until Antonio settled the corners with a series of small pewter weights.

  ‘Hmm,’ he murmured as he cast his discerning eye over the complex designs. ‘Ah, Dorian,’ he said as a tall thin man appeared behind them. ‘This is Meredith Saker, the mage who is designing the patterns for Master Danté’s armour.’

  ‘I’m only an apprentice mage,’ said Meredith.

  Master Dorian looked at Meredith as if he had no right to correct Master Missaglias. He blinked his small, piercing eyes and drew his fingers over the sharply trimmed beard on his narrow chin.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Meredith, stepping back to allow the master engraver in to the table.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Master Dorian in almost exactly the same tone as Antonio. He pulled a brass rimmed monocle from a pocket in his shirt and leaned in closer to the table, tracing the designs with a long slender finger.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said after a thorough inspection. ‘Very like his father’s.’

  Meredith was taken aback to think that this man could see the resemblance without referring directly to the designs of Falco’s father.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Although I didn’t copy them. I only noticed the similarities after deciding on the designs.’

  ‘It is not a criticism, young man,’ said Master Dorian. ‘Your designs appear perfectly adequate, although it is clearly the first time you have attempted the task.’

  Meredith found himself trying to work out whether or not this was a compliment.

  Antonio smiled and gave Master Dorian a nod of thanks as he returned to his work.

  ‘So,’ said Antonio. ‘With the designs for the etching and the list of adjustments we now have everything we need to complete the armour. It’ll be ready for Falco when he returns from the campaign. And that just leaves us with the matter of the sword.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Aurelian and suddenly it was his turn to look uncomfortable. ‘Yes... I was meaning to speak with you about that.’

  Once again Master Missaglias raised an eyebrow. He knew Aurelian well enough to know that he was not going to like what he had to say. The old battle mage put his arm around the master’s broad hunchback shoulders and led him out of the room.

  Meredith was only vaguely aware of them leaving. Across the way he could just make out Falco standing beyond the curtains while the fitters finished their work. Seeing him in the armour had been like seeing him for the first time and Meredith finally began to understand the concerns of Galen Thrall and his father. The armour seemed to suit Falco perfectly, the weight, the style, the design. But more than this, Falco actually looked dangerous and Meredith felt a sudden flash of doubt about trying to help him to unlock his powers.

  Was it really such a wise thing to do?

  What if he did turn against them like his father?

  As he watched, the fitters emerged and drew the curtains to give Falco a few minutes alone. Trying to suppress these new misgivings Meredith reminded himself of the instincts that had persuaded him to help Falco in the first place. Reason told him to be wary but instinct told him to trust. He would stay with instinct, for now.

  *

  Finally alone, Falco stared at the armoured figure in the mirror, a figure that looked strong and intimidating. He had the strangest feeling that he was looking not at himself but at his father and his throat tightened with grief and regret. For a moment he continued to stare but then he looked down at the empty, leather clad palm of his right hand. Master Missaglias was right. He was wearing a suit of armour that few could ever dream of owning.

  And, all that was missing was a sword.

  51

  The Traverser

  ‘I just can’t believe you didn’t invite me!’ said Malaki for about the fifth time since hearing that Falco had been in the workshops of the famous Antonio Missaglias.

  ‘I thought we were just going for a quick visit,’ said Falco as they washed after another morning of heavy training. ‘Besides, it sounds like you need all the practice you can get in the dressage ring.’

  ‘I only hit the post once,’ said Malaki, wiping his face down with a towel.

  ‘Snapped it in half, as I heard,’ said Falco, noticing the way Quirren and Alex were trying not to laugh. Even Bryna poked her head round the curtain separating her from the others.

  ‘It’s Fidelis,’ said Malaki, referring to his bay coloured destrier. ‘I swear he’s left footed!’

  ‘That’s right. Blame the horse,’ said Falco, as if he were tired of hearing yet more excuses.

  They all laughed and Falco flinched as a wet towel slapped into the side of his face.

  ‘En passant is not easy,’ said Quirren, clapping Malaki on the shoulder as he passed. ‘Not now that we’re doing it at full speed.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Malaki. �
�Everything’s more difficult when you’re doing things at speed...’ His voice tailed off as Bryna emerged from behind the curtain, towelling her hair.

  The others glanced at each other awkwardly but Bryna just shook her head and threw her wet towel into a nearby bucket. This afternoon the Dalwhinnies would be attempting the traverser manoeuvre with cavalry at speed and Bryna was afraid they would fail and be denied the chance of going on the training campaign.

  Tucking her shirt into her trousers she pulled on her sheepskin jacket and walked out of the tent. Malaki grabbed his shirt and went after her, Falco and the Klingemann brothers following in their wake.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ said Malaki, pulling his shirt down over his still damp shoulders. ‘You’ve already done it with infantry and cavalry at a walk.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bryna, taking a bread roll from a plate of food on a nearby table. ‘But the Whinnies are archers... cavalry makes them nervous. Some of the younger lads are positively terrified of horses.’ She took a bite of her roll, the fresh bread steaming in the bright spring sunshine.

  ‘Just reassure them,’ said Malaki as Falco, Alex and Quirren took a seat at the table.

  ‘It’s all over pretty quickly,’ said Alex. ‘You just have to get the spacing right and keep the lines straight.’

  Bryna raised her eyes skyward as if to say, ‘It’s easy for you.’ The Exiles had successfully completed the exercise several times but they were older and more experienced soldiers. The Dalwhinnies were a mix of ages and volatile personalities, many of whom had difficulty controlling their impulses. She had images of them breaking ranks and getting trampled to death.

  ‘Maybe you could tell the nervous ones not to do it,’ suggested Falco.

  ‘But I’m nervous too,’ said Bryna. ‘It’s not easy turning your back on a hoard of galloping horses. Besides,’ she added. ‘They’d rather die than lose face.’

  ‘You’ll do fine,’ said Malaki. ‘And we still have nearly three weeks before we’re due to leave. If you don’t manage it today you still have time to try again.’

  Bryna tore off another chunk of bread with her teeth and took a swig of water to wash it down. Then, even as they watched, they saw a column of Légion du Trône light cavalry riding up onto the plateau. And then, from the direction of the archery ranges, they saw a motley group of two hundred archers laughing and jostling each other as they approached.

  More of the cadets were now emerging from the tent while the assistants began laying out a nearby training field in preparation for the exercise.

  ‘I’d better go and meet them,’ said Bryna, forcing down her last mouthful of bread.

  Malaki rose from his seat to kiss her.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said and the others added their best wishes with a series of nods and awkward smiles.

  Looking pale and nervous Bryna fetched her bow and quiver then strode across the field to meet the men under her command. There was no cheering or bravado. The Whinnies knew how much this meant to Bryna, and none of them wanted to look foolish in front of the instructors and the other cadets of the academy.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Falco said to Malaki as they watched the company of cavalry forming up on the training field adjacent to their own. ‘If anyone knows how to ride straight it’s the Légion du Trône.’

  Malaki nodded distractedly and together they made their way over to the side of the field to watch. The lanistas came with them, standing alongside the cadets as the Dalwhinnies moved into position.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Lanista Magnus. ‘She’s done a good job with a difficult unit.’

  Malaki was grateful for the lanista’s words but even he seemed a little on edge. The traverser was simply a dangerous manoeuvre. It was designed to allow one unit of troops to move through another without confusion. History was full of battles that had ended in disaster because units were not able to get into position, armies outflanked and cavalry unable to reach the enemy due to solid blocks of their own infantry getting in their way. It was difficult, but it could be crucial, and so Bryna was determined to get it right.

  Conscious of the eyes upon them she walked across the field to meet the distinctive figure of Patrick Feckler.

  ‘How are they doing?’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Paddy. ‘Laughing and joking, winding each other up. A sure sign that they’re nervous.’

  Bryna nodded and tried to summon some moisture into her mouth. They had successfully completed the traverser with infantry and cavalry at walking speed, traversing at full gallop was an entirely different proposition. The ground literally shook with the drumming of hooves and the sound of their approach was truly frightening.

  On command, the unit to be traversed had to form into ranks leaving gaps for the unit wishing to pass through. The ranks had to be straight and perfectly aligned otherwise it could be disastrous, especially with cavalry at speed. They had worked very hard to get this right but a lot of it still came down to holding one’s nerve. As the cavalry approached they were required to turn away and crouch down, heads bowed against the person in front to reduce their profile and limit any chance of injury.

  ‘How’re Alnwick and Daniel?’ asked Bryna.

  ‘Scared shitless,’ said Paddy. ‘But they’re determined to see it through.’

  ‘Maybe I should just insist they stay out,’ said Bryna, looking at two young lads that could not be more than seventeen years old. One of them, Daniel, was what people might refer to as ‘simple’ but the Dalwhinnies simply accepted him as one of their own. She wandered over to speak with them.

  ‘How are you doing, boys?’ she asked as the two young men rested the tips of their bows on their boots.

  ‘Fine and dandy, Captain,’ said Alnwick, looking anything but fine.

  ‘Bit scared,’ said Daniel, dragging his wavy blonde hair out of his eyes.

  ‘You don’t have to do it,’ said Bryna. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Both boys flushed and averted their eyes. Alnwick looked as if he were about to say something but finally decided against it.

  ‘Bit of fear never hurt anyone,’ said Daniel as if he were quoting something the older men had said to him.

  Bryna gave them a smile and turned away before it had a chance to slip.

  ‘Keep an eye on them,’ she whispered to Paddy. ‘And if Alnwick looks like he can’t handle it, you keep him out. I don’t care if you have to tie him up.’

  Paddy glanced back at the two boys before answering.

  ‘They’re here by choice,’ he said. ‘They’ll either be all right. Or they won’t.’

  Bryna glanced at the bear-like figure beside her and wondered if she could ever feel so indifferent. She was only a few years older than the boys but even to her they seemed so young.

  ‘Get the men lined up,’ she said. ‘We’re almost ready to begin.’

  Paddy nodded and began to berate the Dalwhinnies into a standard block formation ready for ranged fire. Meanwhile Bryna approached one of the marshals overseeing the exercise.

  ‘Ranged fire at two hundred yards. Ready for the traverser on my command,’ said the marshal looking at her with an uncompromising eye. ‘On the first clarion the cavalry will advance. The flag will indicate the line of approach.’ He held up the red flag he was holding. ‘In the event of any problems you have until the second clarion sounds to call off the exercise. After that it will be too late.’

  Bryna nodded. If she was not happy with their formation she had a brief opportunity to call the exercise off, at which point marshals would divert the cavalry to the sides of the field. Turning away from the marshal she looked at the Dalwhinnies now standing in a well ordered block. At one end of the field was a line of targeting poles with white rags flapping in the breeze. At the other the horses of the Légion du Trône shifted in the midday sunlight, waiting for the command to traverse at speed. She moved to take up position at the back of the Dalwhinnies, closest to the approaching cavalry. Her position woul
d mark the line upon which the ranks would form up, a position known as ‘la point’.

  Bryna did not look towards Malaki and the others as she fell into position beside Paddy.

  ‘They’re looking good,’ said Alex with a note of surprise in his voice.

  Falco nodded. The Dalwhinnies had quickly arranged themselves in good order. He glanced at Malaki but his attention was firmly fixed on Bryna. Finally the marshal stepped onto the field and raised a stick bearing a red flag. As a single mass the Dalwhinnies fitted their arrows to the string, three strong and calloused fingers taking the strain.

  ‘Draw!’

  Even from so far away they could hear Bryna’s voice ringing across the field. Unlike many women, whose voices became shrill when raised to shouting, Bryna’s voice had a deep resonance that carried well when giving commands.

  ‘Loose!’ she cried and two hundred arrows shot from the string. They arced through the air and landed with a collective thud along the line of posts two hundred yards away. They might be nervous around horses but there was nothing wrong with the Dalwhinnies’ aim.

  They continued to fire at a steady rate until the marshal’s flag came down and the first clarion sounded.

  ‘Traverser, sur moi!’ cried Bryna.

  ‘Traverser, sur la point,’ bellowed Paddy the Feck, reinforcing her command.

  To a man the Dalwhinnies lowered their bows and turned to check Bryna’s position. She stood at the rear of the block, arms outstretched. She had checked the position of the marshal’s flag and now stood with her back to the cavalry, which had suddenly started towards them. The Dalwhinnies had just a few seconds to get into the required formation as the sound of the approaching horses surged towards them like a wave.

  The rank closest to Bryna straightened up along the line of her arms and proceeded to space themselves at double interval. From here the files extended away in perfectly straight lines. Bryna felt a quick glow of pride at the speed with which they adopted the new formation.

  ‘About face!’ she called and the Dalwhinnies turned their backs on the rapidly approaching cavalry.